arqueete | Another SA fic (Reply)

Title: I've Got Some Things That I Can't Ever Say
Fandom: Spring Awakening
Pairing: Implied rather unrequited Melchior/Moritz
Rating: G
Summary: As if the outside world wasn't pressuring him enough, Moritz is tortured by his inner emotional turmoil.
Notes: Gah, I did it again. Another one of those rather plot-less inner-monologue sort of pieces. But what can you do? The title is a line from Johnny Gallagher's Wurlitzer in Space.

He shoved the essay in his desk drawer. Piled on a book. Added some loose papers on top of it. The hallway looked unsteady through tired eyes but at the foot of the steps was the front door. It was welcoming him. Outside there was a chill carried on a persistent wind, but Moritz didn't want to turn around just yet.

His brisk and slightly unsteady steps took him in an unplanned direction. He told himself, a whisper through clenched teeth in his mind, to get his mind off that essay. He then realized, however, that in telling himself not to think about it he only thought about it more. It seemed his feet could not move quickly enough as they met the path and a pain was growing in his head now...

Damn it.

He could see it, even. It was right there in his mind's eye, still. It was almost as though when writing it Melchior had taken some pleasure in how uninhibited the language was, at how entirely brave it was to put down sins on paper. There was no tilt to the letters, no accidental loops or lines. The words sat on the paper in Melchior's neat, measured letters – bold and uninhibited, not like a frightened whisper behind a cupped hand, not frightened and guilt-ridden like Moritz felt reading it. It was like Melchior was right there, lightly grasping Moritz's arm, speaking the very words in his ear in a low, forbidden tone. In the margins were the illustrations he requested, vivid and unafraid, making him glance over his shoulder constantly even in a locked room – as though the words themselves were not bad enough.

However, the plain two dimensions illustrated by Melchior's careful pen swimming in Moritz's conscience did not remain the height of his shame for long. His mind was not satisfied by technical drawings and plain language. It pulled together everything it could dig out from between the lines, twisted Melchior's description of feeling into a real and torturous longing. His days were haunted by fantasies his head threw at him, unbidden, but however unwanted they were he was still haunted by the guilt that sometimes... oftentimes... he relished them in the moment.

This wasn't fair. This was cruel and undeserved. Before, he was driven by the sickening but shameful need to learn the whys and hows of his own existence and now the knowledge seemed a punishment for his curiosity. He wondered if maybe ignorance really was more blissful -- if it was better to be haunted by stockings and vague desires than the reality of their existence – but it seemed that whether he knew the truth or not he wouldn't be able to escape this torture...

Melchior assured him his feelings were not sinful, or shameful, or worthy of the guilt that sickened him. Melchior spoke, rather off-handedly and in that occasionally poetic way he tended to, of similar feelings and desires. However, Melchior seemed to lack entirely that... anxiety, that obsessiveness, that haunted Moritz. It made him feel alone, strange.

“Moritz! Slow down.” The startling words made him stop mid-stride, turning to see Melchior jogging lightly toward him. “You look so pallid – what's the matter?” His voice was inquisitive, calming, but it sent tendrils that seemed to entangle themselves with Moritz's unsettling emotions.

“I don't want to talk about it.” Moritz's own words were tense and uncomfortable, quickly leaving his lips as though he was eager to rid of them.

Melchior's expression took on... that look. That one. With his eyebrows arched slightly toward the center of his face; his brown eyes were hard and deep behind a slight squint. His head was even tilted, just a little, as he looked into Moritz's face. He looked intensely to something inside Moritz, beyond his words, or that's how it felt as Moritz's eyes wandered elsewhere to escape that stare.

“Really, I should be getting back,” Moritz said, turning and resuming his brisk pace in the opposite direction.

“Moritz! Moritz, I was just going in the direction of the park, why don't you come with me?” Melchior was trying to match his quick steps, concern entering his tone.

“Melchy, please. It's... getting late...” Moritz stuttered breathlessly, trying not to look back as Melchior suddenly stopped, letting himself just fall behind.

Moritz clenched his fists and winced against an inner striking of some kind of guilt or shame or – he tried to push it aside, to walk faster, even. If everything else in his life was already a mess, why bother feeling anything anymore?

The wind tossed leaves across his path and rubbed against his skin. Moritz rubbed his numb fingers across his arms and ached for those arms to be someone else's. He could almost see Melchior, so fresh in his mind, holding his shivering frame. Why? Why couldn't he just be left alone, just for a moment?

Back through his door and stumbling up the steps he fell heavy onto the mattress, his many sleepless nights weighing him down and blurring the room around him.

He wanted badly to get up and walk around some more, to – something, something, but the room, he closed his eyes against the spinning, his breath was heavy, and the torture of sleep and the dreams, the dreams, it wasn't worth the effort, pushing it away, not anymore, no...